


Escape From The Country

by christinefromsherwood, soufflegirl91



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Retired James Bond, Retired Q, Stuff happens, are Bond and Q people to do well in a small rural environment?, ask yourselves, but it's all fun stuff, exactly, hint of mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26908804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinefromsherwood/pseuds/christinefromsherwood, https://archiveofourown.org/users/soufflegirl91/pseuds/soufflegirl91
Summary: They were looking for a quiet retirement in the country. Sherlock Holmes-style, only without the bees. Now, something sinister simmers beneath the surface of this quaint Gloucestershire village, and not everything is the way it seems. But can they escape from the country?(Yeah, this is really melodramatic and only slightly what the fic is actually about.)
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 14
Kudos: 66





	Escape From The Country

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladymars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymars/gifts).



> written as a Fest prize for **ladymars** , who wanted a retirement in the quiet countryside for Q and Bond. Sorry it took so long, ladymars, but I eventually got co-writing help from the awesome **Souffle** and got it done. We hope you like it.

The first intimation Alberta Garbutt had that something was not quite right with The Newcomers appeared on the very day of their arrival. 

At least, that’s what she would later claim to the other ladies of the Tea & Knitting Society. They all nodded sympathetically, needles clicking, before saying: “Well, of course you did, petal, and so did we! Didn’t we say there was something fishy about them from the very start?” 

Some were, perhaps, honest in their self-delusion, except for Maria Hillthrope. She gave Alberta a saccharine smile, offered her another scone and privately thought: 

“Sure you did, you two-faced cow. And who was it that kept bringing them tea cakes and hanging over the fence going: ‘ _Oh Commander_!’ whenever the blue-eyed one went to prune the roses?”

The truth of the matter was that the arrival of one Commander James Bond and his mysterious partner was the most exciting thing to happen in their village for the past five years (perhaps excluding the memorable day when Alberta’s cousin was chased naked around the village green by the farmer holding a pitchfork).

Moreover, Maria was not so sure that there was actually anything at all the matter with their latest blow-ins, except for the fact that they were from the city, but they could hardly help that, could they?

She found herself rather hoping they would stay on once the south-facing side of their cottage got rebuilt.

* * *

Geoff Mills had been landlord of the Queen’s Head for thirty years, and he was proud to say there had never been any funny business in his pub, thank you very much. That is, there had never been any funny business until The Newcomers arrived. 

Everything about The Newcomers practically _screamed_ “funny business.” 

First, there was the fact that they only ever sat at that one table in the corner. More than once, Geoff had clocked them coming into the pub only to see that their chosen table was already occupied, turn around and walk straight out again. Without even buying a drink! It’s not even like there was anything special about that corner table, it hardly offered any privacy, what with being exposed to both the bar lounge and the restaurant seating. It was all very peculiar, if you asked Geoff.

Second, there was the fact that when they had introduced themselves, they had said they were _retired._ Now, the older bloke--what was his name? Jim? John? James? Something like that--did look a bit haggard. Ex-military man, he’d said, something to do with the Navy. But the younger one--come to think of it, Geoff didn’t think the younger one had ever actually introduced himself by name--couldn’t have been older than 40! People these days were lucky if they could retire at 60. Geoff didn’t know what he’d been up to down in London, but no good, honest job lets you retire by 40. 

Thirdly, and this was the final straw, there had been _the fight._ Not once in 30 years had there been a fight in the Queen’s Head until The Newcomers turned up. They were civilised folk in Wendlebury-under-Avon. Now, Geoff would be willing to admit that young Billy Fletcher was a bit of a wastrel, living on his parents farm and never seeming to help out with the cows, but always wearing fancy clothes, with his flashy mobile phone. But just because someone was a bit of a young upstart didn’t give you leave to go round punching them in the face! Driven poor Billy right out of the village, they had! Old Patrick Fletcher said he’d decided to try his luck in the city, but everyone knew he’d run away because of The Newcomers. 

Come to think of it, there had been some funny business up at the Fletcher farm lately, too. The police had been round the barns, Patrick said. Confiscated some strange plants, he said. 

Well. Geoff would bet The Newcomers were behind _that_ , too.

* * *

“Sweet dreams, Bernice.”

The Reverend Thomas Maddox gave his red 1955 Austin Healey one last polishing touch before smiling in satisfaction and closing the garage door. 

On his way to the kitchen, he felt a deep sense of peace wash over him. The same that filled him whenever he plunged into a nice hot bath, or got the perfect level of tea saturation when dunking his biscuit. Not too mushy, just nice and moist and warm. 

Come to think of it, he could do with a cuppa.

Having put the kettle on, he went around arranging his tea things. As he waited for the water to boil, Thomas took a minute to properly admire the orchid on his windowsill. Three weeks and still blooming. Thomas didn’t think he would ever get enough of looking at the small flowers; white petals surrounding the one pink ruffle. So precious and delicate, it was very dear to Thomas. Both as an example of the glory of God’s creation, but also because it encompassed the sweet reward of all the hard work he put forward in teaching his congregation about the grace of Christian love. 

Young Billy Fletcher himself brought it to Thomas’s door! Billy Fletcher, the wastrel! The lost cause! He came and knocked on his vicar’s door, shuffling his feet. He could hardly get the words out when he pressed the flowerpot into Thomas’s hands and said it was just a little something to pay Thomas back for all his kindness and that he was leaving for London, planning to turn over a new leaf. 

Now, pride was, of course, one of the deadly sins, and yet when the Reverend Thomas Maddox looked at his little flower, he felt pride fill him from the tips of his ears to the soles of his houseshoes. 

But after all, what could be wrong about taking pride in a job well done? Whether it was helping to fill the hearts of his parishioners with the milk of Christian love and kindness, or brewing his tea with just the right amount of milk, or giving Bernice a truly excellent polish job. Thomas firmly believed that preserving and appreciating the craftsmanship of the past generations was a praiseworthy endeavour that could only please God. 

So no, he saw absolutely nothing wrong with taking pleasure in owning and appreciating an expensive, classic car! He didn’t do it for the spectacle _like some people_ ; he did it out of love. And there was absolutely nothing wrong with Bernice’s exhaust no matter what that jumped-up little prick said! And what did that witless muscle monkey of his know about classic cars anyway?! Just because he drove a bloody Aston Martin didn’t mean he could walk up to people and start saying things like: “Good morning, vicar. That’s a lovely Austin imitation you’ve got there! The best one I’ve ever seen!” 

The cretinous sea-pickled twat!

The Reverend Thomas Maddox took a calming sip of his tea and reminded himself that his painful trial was over. Commander James Bond and his partner had managed to get their house blown-up and were leaving. God willing, they’d stay away for good. 

And good riddance!

* * *

_Ophelia’s Garden_ was Eileen Walker’s pride and joy. She had built her little flower shop from the ground up and, like a proud mother, watched it go from strength to strength. People came to Wendlebury from all around just to buy her famous orchids, marvelling at the variety of plants they had never seen anywhere else. “Why don’t you have a stand at the flower shows?” they asked, and “why don’t you have a website? You could make a killing if you delivered.” 

OK, technically speaking, some of her prized blooms weren’t supposed to be brought into the country, but they were too beautiful not to share! She had friends abroad from her days as a conservation botanist, and Billy Fletcher had been more than happy to convert one of his father’s empty barns into a hothouse in exchange for a cut of the profits.

Yes, business was going well. 

Or it _had_ been, before _they_ turned up! 

Commander Worked-Out-Too-Hard and his husband Mr Geek Chic had started sniffing around asking questions almost as soon as they arrived in the village. They thought they were being so _subtle_ , asking about why their roses weren’t blooming (in May! Everybody knows that climbing roses don’t bloom until the summer!) and when to plant sunflowers, but Eileen knew. She _knew_ they weren’t there to ask about their garden.

They were onto her. 

They _had to_ be. Why else would Commander Bond have started a fight with Billy in the pub, if not because they _knew._ Billy was a little prick, sure, but you didn’t just go around hitting people for no reason! 

Yes, they’d been onto her, alright. That was more than obvious, now.

Now that their house had mysteriously blown up and the happy couple were quick to bugger off back to wherever they came from. 

Now that Billy had been frightened into running away to London and leaving her in the lurch.

Now that the bloody _police_ had raided the Fletcher farm and seized not only Eileen’s precious orchids but, if the village grapevine was correct (and it always _was_ correct. There’s nothing else to do in small villages other than gossip), a rather large number of cannabis plants. 

Well. It turned out young Billy had his fingers in rather a lot of pies, after all. 

Only now it was only a matter of days before the police came knocking on _her_ door, and then the game would be up. And even worse, they’d probably think _she_ was involved with the drugs, too! 

There was nothing else for it. Eileen would simply have to close the shop for a ‘holiday’--a very long, some could even say _permanent_ holiday. By the time they realised she wasn’t coming back, she would set up somewhere else. 

She heard there were some lovely remote villages in Scotland. They could probably use a flower shop.

* * *

Alberta Garbutt was a _good neighbour_ : kind, friendly, helpful, polite. She also generally tended to mind her own business. (Generally. Gossip was the lifeblood of any village and, in Alberta’s opinion, a bit of gossip was good for the soul no matter what the reverend said.)

Alberta had been an _excellent_ neighbour to the Bond fellow and that shut-in boyfriend of his! 

Hadn’t she brought them her _award-winning_ fruit cake when they’d first moved in? Hadn’t she shared her gardening knowledge and advised them on how best to shear their hedge? Hadn’t she gone out of her way to put in a good word with the Fletchers so they would give them three of their best young chicks? 

She _had_! The trusting, old fool that she was. 

Alberta shook her head at her past self and, in her outrage, knit two a stitch too soon. Jabbing her needle in the knot, she began to undo the mistake. 

Well, she was glad they were going and she hoped they’d never return! The _ingrates_!

It was like Edith said: you couldn’t trust city folk. And Doctor Blevins himself said that her heart couldn’t have taken another day of that kind of stress. 

Bloody chickens! 

If she’d asked them to clip their wings once, she’d done it a hundred times! And of course, those bloody birds didn’t choose to rake up _their_ football-pitch grass! Oh no! Those evil little twits flew over to dig around Alberta’s beautifully landscaped flower garden! 

Her poor pansies! Gone! Gladiolas, daffodils, marigolds--shredded! They tore up even the precious, small patch of Irish moss that she’d been trying out! 

And then _he_ had the _gall_ to offer to pay for damages! As though one could put a price on all the loving care Alberta had lavished on her _award-winning_ garden! 

Slipping a stitch and knitting another, Alberta scoffed. City folk! 

Had she given him a what-for! He’d slunk right off! 

But then, of course, when they’d finally decided to do something about the bloody chooks, it had to be when Edith came over with the baby! Sleeping like an angel he’d been, her little Bertie. The first time he’d settled that day, too! Until those two mugs went striding up and down their garden, _calling_ after the chickens! Who expected a chicken to heel like a dog?! 

Commander Bond and that pasty boy of his, that’s who! Running and roaring after “Dolores!” and “Matilda, come back here!” and “Don’t you dare, Harold!” Such god-awful racket! 

Knit, knit, yarn over, knit, knit-

Such goings on! 

Alberta was sure she had no idea who it was that went slinking over the hedge to their house the morning it blew up. All she’d seen was the outline of a jaw when they lit the match. Square-ish. And _perhap_ s it had reminded her of someone. But it could have been anyone! 

Alberta wasn’t going to go blabbing her mouth. That nice constable from Wendleton said it had been a gas leak, so a gas leak it was. 

She nodded her head again, purling the back row nimbly. 

Edith had said not to, but she’d be glad of a nice, new cardigan for Bertie come autumn. How fast he was growing! He took after her Alfred, God rest his soul. Hadn’t she said that from the start? He had his eyes, too. Big and green. That’s why she chose the honey dew for the yarn. The floozy in the shop tried to force the baby green on her, and wasn’t it just as good, but Alberta had stood her ground and bought all the skeins, two more than she needed! 

She would make Bertie a pair of gloves! And a scarf! And a hat for winter with a bobble as big as his head. Wouldn’t he look sweet! 

Well. _They_ were going and Alberta was glad of it. Yes, she was! Maria could go on and on about how they needed new blood and that the village was dying what with that Walker woman leaving and Billy running off. Pffft! Good riddance to the whole pack of them! 

Alberta had no use for any foreign fiddly flowers! Give her a proper English garden any day!

* * *

Q threw a look at James in the driver’s seat. His shoulders were tense and the muscle in his jaw was ticking. In the backseat, Sugar was napping quietly; Spice began to gnaw at the zipper on her side of the carrier. The soft clinking of her teeth against the metal was the only sound in the car. 

Q bit his lip and went back to scrolling aimlessly through the news feed on his tablet. 

_DEARER THAN DARLING BUDS OF MAY: PUTTING A PRICE ON THE WORLD’S RAREST FLOWERS_

_With its delicate white petals and a long dusky lip, Eulophia obtusa is perhaps not the most conspicuous of its species, yet-_

Q huffed and swiped out. Fucking flowers. He’d had _enough_ of those.

When James first came with the idea of moving to the country, Q had been skeptical. He had never lived outside of a city and he’d found it hard to see any appeal in moving away from everything London offered in exchange for supposedly fresher air, more grass and birds. But James had been really enthusiastic about getting away and being outside and when the long weekend with the cats in the Cotswolds proved a resounding success--Sugar had been a bit baffled by all the green stuff but Spice took to tree climbing and pouncing on bugs, birds and one unlucky mouse like a fish to water--Q had began to see James’s point. 

And so when they’d found a nice, renovated cottage straight from a chocolate box, they’d put their flat up for sale and gone to begin the rest of their lives in Wendlebury-under-Avon. 

It had been… fine? Mostly? 

Honestly, once Q set up the Wifi to his satisfaction, he’d been set. Had he occasionally missed take-out food? Maybe? A bit. But the local pub served a nice steak and kidney pie when neither he, nor James felt like cooking. The cats were certainly in their element. And James… 

Q shot him another quick look. 

He _really_ hadn’t meant to imply that James was a failure and good for nothing but killing whatever target you pointed him at. But that’s how James took his: “Next time, maybe more research might be advisable before you start _another hobby._ ” (Q regretted the inflection the moment the words left his mouth.) Then James accused him of caring about the cats and his computers more than him, and… It hadn’t been pretty. 

Closing his eyes, Q leaned against the headrest. The silence was killing him. But it wouldn’t do any good to bring it all up and try to clear the air now while James was driving.

James had begun to worry Q when he’d started pruning the roses three times a day. On the outside, he was still the same, still his James. The obsession with roses was new, though. Q had tried to ascribe it to a fixation on an interesting, new hobby, but he couldn’t help feeling there was something more to it, that there was something _wrong_. Then James began to visit the florist daily, asking around which manure made the best fertiliser, and Q knew he needed to do something because James was clearly losing his mind. 

The chickens had been Q’s suggestion. Something to distract James from the manic pruning and fertilizing. Plus: fresh eggs as a bonus! James loved finding out new ways to cook eggs! So yeah, the chickens had been Q’s bad. If he believed in such things, Q would be inclined to think that Dolores, Matilda and Harold had been a divine punishment sent on him for harping on about lost or damaged equipment too often back in the day. 

The _noise_ they made in the mornings! Always getting out of their pen, shitting all over the garden, flying over to their cow of a neighbour…

And that was another thing! The entire village, from the vicar to the florist James had begged for advice--pricks the lot of them! Q had never wanted to stab a stuck-up bastard more, not since his last budget meeting.

Still, Q supposed they could go look elsewhere. James wouldn’t be happy cooped up inside the flat all day and-

“I’m sorry.” Q jerked in his seat at the sound of James’s voice. 

“What?”

“I’m sorry we had to leave, Q,” James continued, “I know how much you loved Wendlebury and it’s my fault that Five is making us leave.” 

Q stared. Opened his mouth. Then closed it again. 

WHAT

“A smuggling ring! Right under my nose, and I never noticed.” He was shaking his head, mouth set in a grim line, and Q-

“Love,” he said, voice shaking. “I fucking hated that place.”

“You- what?” 

James turned his attention from the road to raise an incredulous eyebrow at Q, which: _how_ had James not noticed?! 

“Hated it. Will happily never set foot in a ‘quaint’ little village ever again, in fact. Really bloody happy to- JAMES! The road!” 

Q held his breath as James swerved out of the way of the oncoming tractor. Bloody country lanes! May they never again need to drive down a narrow track bordered on either side with six foot hedges. 

“I thought you liked it!” 

“Why would _I_ like it?! It was _your_ idea!” 

“You suggested the chickens! Why would you suggest getting _chickens_ if you hated it?” 

“Because you were one snip away from killing those poor roses, that’s why!” 

Q inhaled deeply, reminding himself that the roses were now a thing of the past. Whether they lived or died didn’t matter anymore. If they had even survived the explosion, that was. 

“You were right. I didn’t have a fucking clue what I was doing with those roses.” The admission came out of seemingly nowhere; James was keeping his eyes firmly on the road now. Q could just about make out the pink flush of his ears, though--a sure giveaway, even if James _was_ in desperate need of a haircut. Growing it out really didn’t suit him. “That’s why I kept going back to the flower shop. It’s not _my_ fault she’s trading in illegal orchids.” 

Q snorted.

“Well, neither of us are exactly interested in horticulture. You must have known _something_ was up, though. You _did_ punch that jumped-up little prick from the farm. Or was that just because his fashion sense offended you?” 

“He was wearing trainers and a baseball cap with a _real_ Burberry coat, Q!” 

“And so you punched him?” Only James Bond would be so out of touch with the fashion tastes of the wealthy young as to get so riled up. Not riled up enough for violence, though. “I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now. Come on, out with it.”

James sighed, tapping the steering wheel in a staccato rhythm. Q frowned. It couldn’t be _that_ bad, surely? The arrogant little sod had practically had a neon sign over his head screaming “I’M UP TO NO GOOD!” James need hardly be nervous about admitting that he’d figured it out. The amount of orchid plants in that shed, not to mention all the-

“He made one too many unwise remarks.” 

Well. That was… carefully worded. But it wasn’t too hard to read between the lines.

“James,” Q sighed, half-exasperated and half-fond. “You can’t go around punching _every_ homophobic troglodyte, you know.” 

James grunted. 

“Besides,” Q breezed on. “It’s far easier to steal their email addresses and sign them up for every single erectile dysfunction mailing list and money-grabbing chain letter scheme out there. Email AND post.” 

James rolled his eyes, but Q could see the hint of a smile. He was hardly going to berate James for his actions. Q would have been far more vindictive in his place. And now, everyone in the village was going to think that James had known about the drugs and tipped off the police, anyway. Speaking of which…

“Did you _really_ not know about the drugs?” 

“Oh, and I suppose you did?”

“Well, it was rather obvious. I didn’t guess about the flowers. Who smuggles _flowers_ , anyway?! But it’s not hard to guess that Billy was up to _something_ on the side. He was far too flashy for his own good.” 

Scoffing, James flexed his hand on the steering wheel. Q rolled his eyes and went back to his tablet. A moment later, he felt the touch of James’s fingers on the back of his hand. With a small smile, Q turned his palm and grasped his hand, feeling for his favourite calluses.

“Did you mean it?” James spoke up after a while.

“What?”

“About not wanting to set foot in another ‘quaint little village’ again.” 

_Ah._

Biting his lip, Q tried not to let his hand go unnaturally tense in James’s grip.

“Well,” he began carefully. While he didn’t think that the country was the best place for James, he absolutely didn’t want to imply that James’s dreams of a quiet retirement and horticultural success were doomed to failure. For himself, if there was Wifi… Q exhaled slowly. Well, he’d be willing to give it another go. Just one more, though. “I’m sure they aren’t all like _that_? So if you want to look for something a bit further north-”

The “No!” shot out of James along with a sudden, painful squeeze of Q’s hand. He tried to stretch his fingers surreptitiously, as James continued: “We _have to_ stay in London, Q. I thought I’d go crazy. There’s no gym in the country!”

Q blinked at him. “But I thought you wanted all the fresh air. You said-!”

“Fuck fresh air,” James laughed. “Fuck the roses, and most of all: Fuck the chickens!”

Now, Q hated the chickens with his entire heart, still-

“But it was you who gave them names!” 

James snorted. “Because I knew they were evil from the start. Dolores was the codename of the mission my first submarine was given during which I nearly froze my balls off in the middle of North Greenland Sea. Matilda is the cow who broke the tail-lights on the Aston and didn’t even bother to leave her contact information. And Harold-”

Q felt his eyes go wide at the sudden realization. “After Triggs?” 

James nodded. 

“Oh wow,” Q breathed out. 003 was a prick of the highest order. “You really hated them from the start.” And he hadn’t said anything because they’d been Q’s idea, and James had somehow got it into his head that Q was living the dream in fucking Wendlebury-under-fucking-Avon. 

He covered his eyes with his free hand and groaned: “We’re too old for this shit, James.” Then he was being tugged closer until his head rested on James’s shoulder. He went on: “Just think. If there hadn’t been a smuggling ring and Five hadn’t come to boot us out for bungling their operation, we might have stayed there _for years_!”

Q felt James’s full-body shudder. 

_London 30 miles_ , announced a road sign.

Only thirty. Soon it would be twenty, then fifteen. Q smiled. They’d be home soon.

“No, darling, I don’t believe that,” James replied with a slight delay, squeezing Q’s hand soothingly, as he signaled to overtake a lorry. “You’d have come to your senses in another month or two and blown up the house sooner.”

Like a shot, Q straightened from his slouch against James’s shoulder. “What do you mean: _I_ would have blown up the house. I thought it was you!”

“I didn’t blow up the house. Why would I blow up the house?” 

“Well, fuck,” Q breathed out. “One of those stuck-up bastards tried to murder us!”

He was grateful for the lull in traffic as he and James stared at each other in mute amazement.

“Should we-”

“We’re _not_ going back there.”

“Yeah,” James agreed and turned back to the road.

“Well,” Q began, scratching his shoulder, then fell silent. It looked like they’d _really_ lost their touch. First, the smuggling ring, now their own attempted murder…

“My money’s on the vicar,” James announced suddenly. “He hated us from the start.”

Q scoffed. “In that case, the vicar’s about as likely as the pub landlord. He acted like he was doing us a favour whenever he deigned to take our order. I bet it was your florist friend.”

James rolled his eyes. “She wasn’t my ‘florist friend’, and I don’t think she’s the type. The vicar, though...”

By the time the first signs of civilization appeared on the horizon, they’d compiled a decent suspect list, and by the time James parked the Aston by their building, they’d managed to arrive at a definite culprit several times over. 

“I’m telling you, it couldn’t have been the Hillthrope woman. We’ve hardly even spoken to her, and she lives too far from the cottage to have been bothered by the chickens,” Q insisted as he took the bag with his tech in one hand and the handle of the cat carrier in the other. 

Heaving one large suitcase and a box labeled _Kitchen Things?_ , James rolled his eyes: “And I’m telling you there was something off about her.”

“What? The fact that she smiled at us in the post office once?” Sugar’s deep yawn punctuated Q’s point quite nicely, he thought. 

Shrugging his shoulders, James unlocked the door and held it open. Q stopped in the doorway, blinking rapidly at the sight of dust whirling in the sunshine streaming through the stairwell. 

Nearly there, nearly home… 

Q had to stop himself from taking the stairs two at a time. The cats wouldn’t appreciate the rapid movement.

“It’s really lucky no one bought it,” James hummed from behind on the second landing.

“Yeah,” Q agreed in his most even tone of voice. “Really lucky.” 

And then they stood in front of their front door and Q found himself holding his breath as James slid the key into the lock. The sound was so familiar and they were _home-_ James paused.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began. 

Q huffed impatiently. “It _couldn’t_ have been the vicar either. I’ve told you-”

“No.” James shook his head. “We’ll have to get a leash for the cats and take them to the park now. You know, so they don’t miss the trees.” Then he just opened the door and walked through!

Heart in this throat, Q took a deep breath and followed behind. 

He calmly set the cats down, steadily unzipping their carrier while James locked the door behind them. Spice shot out to hide under the sheet covering their sofa, while Sugar stretched languidly and went to rub himself against the corner of their box of _Kitchen Things?_ James had set down. And that’s when Q’s restraint ended.

By the look in his eyes, James was expecting it when Q turned around and began to stalk towards him. He opened his arms just in time for Q to crash into him and push him against their door.

“We’re home,” he said. _And alive,_ he thought. 

“And we’re not fucking leaving,” James agreed in a low rumble. Then he kissed him. 

They didn’t think of Wendlebury-under-Avon or their murderous neighbours again for quite some time after that.

Their detective discussion began anew only three days later when a newscaster asked her viewers: “Does this shocking robbery of a vicarage spell the end for British countryside? Come with us to Wendlebury-under-Avon where our star reporter Lucy Carmichael interviewed the locals.”

**Author's Note:**

> Now, did our little mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a lot of rambling surprise you? Or did it surprise you? (It surprised us. :D ) Let us know in the comments, if you think you've solved it. 
> 
> If you want to keep reading 00q but would prefer something more firmly 00Q focused, allow us to point your attention to these:
> 
>   * [Through A New Lens: A Spectacular Love Story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26255149) by christinefromsherwood _\- 10k, E-rated, getting together 00q, post-SPECTRE fix it, Q is fine with things being the way they are, only then he sees Bond wearing reading glasses and fuuuuuUUUUck_
>   * [The Great Pastry Chouxdown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25017319) by soufflegirl91 _\- 8k, established 00Q, Q makes a very unwise baking bet with Bill Tanner and the future of his relationship might hang in the balance. dun-dun-DUUUN!, fluff and humour_
>   * [Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26119993) by christinefromsherwood, soufflegirl91 _\- 5k, an established 00Q, they go for a perfectly planned picnic, absolutely everything goes according to plan, 100%_
>   * [Holding Out For A Hero](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23425648) by christinefromsherwood, soufflegirl91 _\- 3k, James Bond gets the most baffling mission briefing of his career, but is everything the way it seems muahahaha, fluff and humour, naturally_
>   * [The Dick Fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25503640) by soufflegirl91 _\- 3k, pre-00Q, Bond has an annoying habit of gifting people he works with with incredibly inappropriate souvenirs, humour,_
>   * [Make Marmalade (When Life Gives You Lemons)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25458352) by christinefromsherwood _\- 2k, established 00q, emotional rollercoaster with a very happy ending, they argue about a jar of marmalade_
> 



End file.
